


i. let's hang out sometime

by tempestaurora



Series: the kids aren't alright [whumptober 2020] [1]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Season/Series 01, Whump, Whumptober 2020, circa 2000, lowkey torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26543368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempestaurora/pseuds/tempestaurora
Summary: If Dad had ever let Diego get close enough to the reporters to give his actual opinion on the whole Umbrella Academy malarkey, he might’ve told them that being a teenaged superhero sucked. In fact, he might have spat it, vehemently, because every mission seemed to end badly, even when they won.But this time, he supposed, as consciousness flooded his body suddenly, was not a mission they had won.
Series: the kids aren't alright [whumptober 2020] [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1930186
Comments: 22
Kudos: 95





	i. let's hang out sometime

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: Waking Up Restrained | Shackled | Hanging
> 
> yes, you heard it here first, I am once again doing whumptober. in 2018, i completed whumpvember (whumptober... but in november), and now i'm back to make myself struggle and cause myself pain and annoyance as I try to write thirty-one fics to post over the course of october. some of them will be sad. some of them will be happy. some of them will be ridiculous. have a good month everybody.
> 
> i thought i'd start off easy with some general diego sadness.
> 
> in related news, happy birthday to the umbrella academy kids. i'm sorry for what i'm gonna put you through this month.

If Dad had ever let Diego get close enough to the reporters to give his actual opinion on the whole _Umbrella Academy_ malarkey, he might’ve told them that being a teenaged superhero sucked. In fact, he might have spat it, vehemently, because every mission seemed to end badly, even when they won.

But this time, he supposed, as consciousness flooded his body suddenly, was not a mission they had won.

His shoulders and wrists ached due to how he was strung up; his wrists locked together in shackles far above his head, hanging from the ceiling. His feet _barely_ touched the floor; just the toes of his stupid black school shoes, flailing for purchase. He was—God, Diego didn’t even know _where_ he was. It was dark, that’s all he knew, and the shapes in the room were just black shadows, faintly lit at the edges.

Carefully, he span to get a look behind him, clamping his mouth shut as his shoulders screamed in pain. If they weren’t dislocated already, they would be by the time he got out of this mess— _if_ he got out of this mess.

_Dad’s coming,_ he told himself, though he didn’t believe it. His father, Sir Reginald Hargreeves, had not yet proven himself to be a reliable father despite fourteen years of having children. It was likely he would let Diego die here. It was likely that this was Diego’s last song, and he would spend it strung up in the dark.

Though—there was one light; the static white of a television without signal; a small boxy thing in the corner, blaring into nothingness. _Because that’s not totally fucking creepy,_ he thought.

There was no sign of another person, though; no outline or shadow in the dark. He tried to tug his hands free for a moment before he naturally span back the way he’d originally been facing, his toes scrabbling to hold him up.

“Well, this s-s-s-sucks,” he muttered, before biting down on the wave of pain that passed through him, from wrist to shoulder to toes. He didn’t remember getting taken, though if he were here, it was because Allison didn’t have his back.

They’d been teamed up together for a routine mission of a creepy warehouse where Dad had been informed of a hostage situation. They’d been on a number of missions just like it, in which they’d stepped silently through the dark and taken out the kidnappers one by one. Ben would stay back unless there was true violence to unleash, and Diego would throw knives from afar, watching Allison’s back as she crept closer to whisper rumours to the targets.

But this time, something must’ve gone wrong.

Last he remembered, he and Allison hadn’t even split up when his vision went suddenly black. Must’ve been hit from behind, Diego decided, twisting his fingers around the chains that held him up. Must’ve been one good, solid hit to knock him down, and then he might’ve even been taken out the way the Umbrella Academy got inside, away from the flashing lights of the police.

But that didn’t help him now. He needed to _get out,_ preferably before whatever shitsack who’d stolen him got back.

Diego hesitated before trying to lift himself upwards – perhaps if he could reach the place where the chains met the ceiling, he could unhook it and let himself down, or maybe if he crunched his body up high enough, one hand might be able to reach into a pocket and get out a knife. Or maybe—or maybe—or maybe—

He wasn’t sure, but the agonising, splitting pain from his shoulders warned him back down again. They must be dislocated. Who knew how long he’d been up there for, just _dangling?_

Diego breathed through the pain, tamped down the need to cry, and tried to think logically. Could he feel the shivs that were slipped up his sleeves for easy access? _No,_ he thought a moment later, they were gone. If he shifted his body weight, what about the knives hidden across his torso, or in his shoes? Diego couldn’t tell, feeling blinded by the pain, and grunted uselessly.

What if he _died_ here?

Fuck, that was a stupid thought. He wouldn’t die here, he couldn’t. He was just a _kid._ Kids didn’t really die, not even if they were the kind who were superheroes. Kids had the wild, crazy adventures, and they lived to tell the tale after. Except—Diego didn’t know if Five counted or not. After he disappeared the year before, Dad had called off the search after three days.

“Statistically,” he’d informed the remaining six Hargreeves children at the dinner table on the third day, “ninety-four percent of missing children are found within seventy-two hours. However, if a child is taken with the intent of murder, it happens before two days are up. The likelihood of Number Five coming back to us is low.”

Those words didn’t fill Diego with confidence now. How long had it been since he was taken? The mission had started at five pm on a Tuesday, and in the spot he believed was the edge of a curtain around a window, it seemed dark outside, like there was no outer light source. Of course, the windows could be boarded up, but if they weren’t, he might’ve been in this place anywhere from two hours to twelve.

Would Dad even search for him? He’d made an outwards attempt at it for Five, though Diego didn’t remember the police ever getting involved – then he’d just commissioned a new painting with five children instead of six, and a secondary painting of Five alone to hang on the wall and remind them what it meant to disobey their father.

Diego grunted. Allison had once joked that she wouldn’t have been surprised if there were some form of trackers implanted in their bodies – Diego hoped it was true now, that Dad knew where he was and was coming to get him.

God, he just wanted to go _home._

He wanted Mom to tuck him into bed and feed him warm cookies. He wanted to listen to Luther’s shitty choice in music on vinyl through the walls. He wanted to be anywhere but here.

“M-M-Mom,” he whimpered, unbidden.

What if the person who stole him wanted to hurt him? What if he wanted answers Diego couldn’t provide? What if he killed him and left his body for his siblings to find? Or strung him up somewhere public so the world could see his corpse?

Diego squeezed his eyes tightly shut and huffed at the tear that slipped out. How embarrassing—he had to be stronger, be the hero that Dad believed he could be. Diego bet that Luther wouldn’t have cried in this situation. Luther would’ve just used his brute strength to pull himself down from the ceiling and left. He wouldn’t have cried.

He sniffed in an attempt to make himself stop, before freezing. Hollow footsteps echoed from another room. His captor. They were still here? Would he have to fight them to escape?

The footsteps paused before the sound of a door handle turning sounded from across the room. In the pitch black, Diego locked his gaze on the spot he thought it was coming from. A slither of yellow light appeared nearby and he watched it widen slowly as a silhouette appeared within it. When the door was open fully, the light shedding a rectangle across the floor and showing Diego the small apartment he was contained in; a few bookcases, an arm chair, a kitchenette and a few doors leading to other rooms, the figure entered the room.

Diego shook where he stood, teeth clenched tight together. What could he do? What could he _do?_

“Well, Number Two, if this isn’t a poor showing on your behalf,” a familiar voice droned. Diego choked on relief.

“D-Dad,” he said.

Reginald Hargreeves came into view, his face twisted in disdain as he looked over Diego, strung up and pained.

“You know, even _Number Four_ might’ve managed his way out of this situation by now,” he intoned. “I thought better of you, Number Two.”

“D-Dad?” Diego asked. “Where’s—w-where’s the t-t-target?”

Dad scoffed, tapping his cane on the ground and looking back to the doorway. Pogo’s familiar silhouette stepped into the yellow light and reached an arm up, flicking on the light switch. The room really _was_ just an apartment: bare, empty of all personality, with only few possessions. Diego had a sinking feeling in his gut. Pogo watched silently.

“There is no _target_ , Number Two,” Dad said. “This was a test, and you failed.”

He wanted to vomit all over Dad’s fancy shoes.

“I even left a knife for you, made it _easy,_ ” he added, gesturing loosely to a knife on the sideboard that had been invisible in the dark. “Very disappointing of you, indeed. I imagine Number One would’ve been out in seconds.”

Diego wanted to cry then and there. Wanted to sob so hard he threw up; wanted to beg and plead for forgiveness and wash the entire night away with his anguish, but instead he held it fiercely in, watching his father walk back to the door.

“D-Dad?” he called after him, hoping the words didn’t come out as a whine.

Dad waved a single hand, but it wasn’t until he was out of Diego’s sight that Pogo produced a set of keys and went about moving the chair and climbing on top to release Diego from his shackles.

He thumped down hard against the floorboards and cut off his own cry by biting down on his tongue. His arms had fallen down to his sides and screamed at him for the movement, for the sudden change.

“Let’s go, Number Two,” Pogo said softly, and Diego struggled to his feet and followed Pogo down the stairs of the apartment building and out to the black car where Dad was already in the front, talking with the driver. He fell silent when Diego inched in, hissing at the splintering hurt, unable to even put on his seatbelt.

They stayed resolutely silent all the way home, where Diego was led by Pogo to Mom, who smiled something horribly sad and took him to the clinical medical room, where she popped his arms back into place and gave him a strawberry lollipop afterwards. She kissed his forehead and provided him with painkillers and water, and merely shut the door when Diego started sobbing and choking on his own breath, so only she would hear his pain.

Later, when she led him back to his room, a glass of warm milk in one hand a hot water bottle in the other, Luther poked his head out of his bedroom, eyes wide.

“Luther,” Mom admonished kindly, “it’s far past your bedtime.”

“I know, Mom, I’m sorry,” he said. “I just wanted to see how Diego did—Dad said he got to go on a training mission right after the main one! How’d it go?”

Diego’s body was numb and he was yet to vomit up his dinner, though he thought there was still a good chance he might. But he said, “It was fine,” and turned into his bedroom before he could see Luther’s confused look. Perhaps, if it had gone well, if it hadn’t been framed as a real kidnapping, if he hadn’t come close to accepting his own mortality, even as a _kid_ (and kids don’t die, they just go on adventures and live to tell the tale… right?), he might’ve excitedly told Luther all about it, and even rubbed it in his face.

But it _hadn’t_ gone well, and it _had_ been framed as a real kidnapping, and Diego thought he was going to get his own oil painting on the wall, and Dad was going to commission a separate one with the remaining four Umbrella Academy students, so he merely turned into his bedroom, let Mom tuck him into bed, and waited until she was gone to cry again.

But he did it so quiet that even Luther, on the other side of the wall, wouldn’t have heard a damn thing.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!!! make sure you talk to me in the comments!! i'm gonna be posting all month, so you can subscribe to the series to get email notifications when i post, or just check back here regularly throughout october and some of the fics will absolutely not be whump at all and actually be something soft and fluffy. i hope.
> 
> also, [follow me on tumblr!](https://tempestaurora.tumblr.com/) i post out of context lines from fics and complain out loud about stuff.


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